The Forest of Peldain

Chapter Sixteen

It was near dawn of the fourth night when the white-coated acolyte came from Lakeside and touched his brow in the cult’s formal sign of respect.

“Our cause is betrayed,” he told Vorduthe. “One of us whom Mistirea trusted went to Prince Askon and revealed all. The Prince is on his way here with all the force he could muster.”

Vorduthe cursed under his breath. Mistirea had experienced extreme difficulty in judging whom he could confide in. The cult members, long trained in reverence for the lake, found the turn of events confusing.

“And Mistirea?”

“He is gathering your men and those of us we can trust. They too will shortly be on their way here.”

“Wait. I will return with you.”

Bending his head, Vorduthe stepped into the low, cramped tunnel, shored up by timber props, that ran horizontally into the sloping ground. Two men came toward him dragging sacks of earth. Even by the light of the lamps he would not have been able to see the other two who were digging at the tunnel’s end. They were too far in now, hacking away with tree-grown hardwood tools that were actually meant for replanting trees, but which served their present purpose well enough.

During the daytime the entrance was blocked and concealed. Much easier and quicker would have been to dig straight through the retaining bank, but Vorduthe had elected to start farther down the slope so as to reach a greater depth. By his estimation the tunnel should be about ready to break through.

If he was wrong then the outcome would depend on who won the forthcoming fight. From the cache of weapons stored just inside the entrance he took a sword and strapped on the waist belt and harness. He stopped the two earth-shifters, briefly told them what was happening, and went outside.

In the west the glow of dawn was beginning to challenge the blazing stars. He and the acolyte walked up the slope, skirting the looming bank until eventually they were able to view the dully gleaming, perfectly flat surface of the lake.

They were in time to see a column of men moving among the tree-houses and coming toward the lake. To Vorduthe’s military eye they looked like a mob for they came along in a crowd and not in rank and file as Arelian warriors would. Some were garbed in the honey-colored armor of the palace guard, a few in the brown bark cuirasses worn by cult acolytes when in combat order.

Heading them was Askon Octrago, also in honey armor and a coroneted helmet of the same color.

“You would have done better to arm yourself for your errand,” Vorduthe observed dryly to the acolyte.

Then, from another direction, Mistirea and Troop Leader Kana-Kem were seen leading a mixed group of seaborne warriors and acolytes round the corner of a large community house. There were about forty Arelians, together with approximately the same number of Peldainians, all armed.

The two groups spotted one another and halted. With feral glances at both Vorduthe and Mistirea, Octrago stepped from among his men. The High Priest, too, moved forward, crossing about half the distance between them.

Octrago’s caustic words were crisp on the cool morning air. “Here we have the whole treacherous nest, it seems. Tell me, High Priest, was it for this that I exerted myself? Crossed the ocean? Dared the forest? Well, no matter. You had best not oppose me now. Stand aside while I finish this business once and for all.”

“You misunderstand what is happening!” Mistirea’s voice was pleading and he addressed not only Octrago but those following him. “We must render the forest harmless, and this is the only way! It should have been done long ago!”

“What!” Octrago’s face showed that he was genuinely incredulous. “The forest is our protection against the rest of the world! Our ancient hedge—against such as he!” He gestured violently at Vorduthe, glaring. “Your duty is to keep it within bounds, not to strip us of it!”

“It cannot be kept within bounds any longer. We are the lake’s prisoners, under sentence of death!” Mistirea puffed out his chest and his voice strengthened. “Listen to me! All I have done, I have done for the sake of Peldain—”

“Your brain has been addled by this lying foreigner,” Octrago growled, interrupting. “All this is for the sake of Arelia!”

He made a signal to a man behind him. A lance was hurled, catching Mistirea in the chest. He staggered, clutched at himself, then fell to the ground.

With a great shout on both sides, the two forces rushed at one another. The shock of their meeting sounded out a clash of metal and the thudding of lance and sword on timber shields, followed by the grunts, growls and groans of men in mortal combat.

To the Arelians, this was the revenge they had been itching for. They fought like demons, like maddened tentacle-fish, wanting only to hack, stab and kill. The acolytes on both sides had less enthusiasm; they did not like to cross swords with their former intimates and more than one fled the field.

The palace guards, shaken at first by the extent of Arelian ferocity, proved a stiffer foe. Skilled by long practice in the use of shield, sword and lance, they added Arelian as well as Peldainian blood to the stained moss, and the encounter turned into a confused melee.

Octrago, however, neatly dodged the fray. He came on straight for Vorduthe, and the unarmed acolyte standing by the commander’s side turned and ran, terrified at the sight of the advancing prince, who shouted a challenge.

“Now we shall have a reckoning, Lord Vorduthe!”

Having longed to meet Octrago on final terms, Vorduthe was almost glad to see the prince so oblivious of his country’s best interests. His sword dropped into his hand and he stood firm to meet the attack.

Neither man carried a shield, but Octrago was quick to take advantage of the fact that he was wearing armor and Vorduthe was not. In the growing daylight his blade shimmered and flickered faster than the eye could follow in feint after feint and, though wise to most tricks of Arelian swordsmanship, Vorduthe found himself forced back by the wild and reckless onslaught.

The rush ended in a straight thrust to the heart which Vorduthe barely deflected in time and Octrago’s point gouged his shoulder. With renewed rage he went on the attack. They came to close quarters. For some moments the two men swayed together, then they sprang apart, weighing one another up warily.

“The lake! Look at the lake! The lake!”

All fighting stopped as, in silence, those on both sides obeyed the hysterical shout that had come from among them. The rim of the sun was visible on the western horizon now. By its light the surface of the lake shimmered, rippled, swirled.

Taking care to keep Octrago visible out of the corner of his eye, Vorduthe half-turned to look behind him. A flood of green liquid was pouring down the sloping terrain from the tunnel that had been dug in it. The diggers, having been carried by the onrush, were picking themselves up, staggering and sloshing to safety.

The same voice as before let out a despairing wail.

“They are draining the lake!”

“You have murdered the soul of Peldain!”

This last came from Octrago. Face contorted, he came at Vorduthe with such berserk fury that the Arelian commander was forced into the lake. Octrago followed him and seemed to have abandoned all thought for his own life. Soon the two were up to their waists and slashed wildly at one another, floundering.

Vorduthe felt an undertow tug at his legs. Then, as he shifted his footing, the bottom fell away beneath him and he toppled.

A strong current caught him. He went under, dragged down and toward the far side of the lake where the tunnel had broken through. His sword snagged on the bottom and was torn from his grasp, then something seized his leg and began clawing its way toward his throat.

It was Octrago; the Peldainian prince had lost his sword too but now was intent on killing him with his bare hands. In utter darkness, swept along by the increasingly swift current, they struggled.

At last Vorduthe felt the other grow weaker. He pushed him away and sought to strike for the surface, but the current was now far too strong. Down he went, and there, in the surging dark, he became aware of an emotion.

It seemed to be all around him in the moving liquid: stark fear, disbelief, a terrible desire not to succumb to death.

The mind in the lake had begun its disintegration. Undisturbed for thousands of years, its substance was moving, whirlpooling, draining away. Vorduthe’s consciousness went blank; involuntarily he found himself entering trance state, and before him there seemed to hover a gigantic face.

Momentarily he saw it clearly: vaguely of Peldainian cast, chalk-white, with straw-colored hair and glaring blue eyes. It was this face that emitted the emotion Vorduthe had been feeling. The eyes were desperate, savage in their protestation of what was happening. The lips moved, mouthing an accusation he could not hear.

For the huge visage was distorting. It was a face drawn on water, and the water was moving, streaming, pouring and whirling toward some outlet to one side.

Vorduthe came to normal awareness. He had not filled his lungs properly when he went under but did not have the strength to regain the surface. He realized that his best chance of survival would be to go with the stream and hope to be carried through the tunnel. He began to swim, trying to reach the center of the maelstrom whose outlet was at the far bottom of the lake.

His lungs strained for air. He bumped into something, was sucked into a thick confusion of mud and detritus. Vaguely he was aware of being carried along at speed, then his senses gave out.

When he came to, Donatwe Mankas and Wirro Kana-Kem were dragging him clear of a widening swamp of moss and green fluid. He forced himself to his feet, waved them away and looked out over the scene, breathing deeply.

The green lake was still pouring through the tunnel mouth. Hours would pass, perhaps, before it all drained away. Kana-Kem indicated a limp figure lying some distance from the tunnel, gradually being pushed down the slope by the flow. “That is Askon Octrago, my lord. Washed out like a dead fish. He could not dive like an Arelian!”

Vorduthe looked at the pathetic form with mixed feelings. “In some ways he was noble of soul,” he admitted. “He achieved remarkable things, despite his methods… such determination has to be admired.”

“His father, King Kerenei, died last night,” Mankas added. “He was a king himself, yet he came and fought you personally. That, too, was brave.”

Vorduthe sighed. “What of the rest of it?”

“We have won the day already, my lord. The heart went out of the Peldainians when the lake started to move, and even more so when their King Askon failed to surface! Most are dead, a few are taken prisoner.”

“Then it is all ours,” Vorduthe said. He stared into the rising sun. “This land was falsely promised to our monarch. We shall take the liar at his word. I claim Peldain in the name of King Krassos, his heirs or successors.”

“We still are few—even fewer, now. It is a big place.”

“Who is there to oppose us? The common inhabitants have no spirit of resistance, and besides their god has been destroyed.”

How could he explain what he knew, and how he knew it? That King Krassos was dead, the Hundred Islands torn apart by insurrection, Arcaiss sacked. Peldain would have to be put to work, a path cleared through the forest, ships built, an army of warriors trained. It was their task now to return to the Hundred Islands and restore Arelian greatness.

How long would it take? No matter. They would do it.

“First we secure this country,” he said. “Then back to the Hundred Islands. Arelia needs us.”

The strengthening sun was beginning to hurt his eyes, but he did not remove his gaze. He was glad of the excuse for tears.

For his thoughts were in Arelia. He was thinking of the villa on the headland. And only now could he dwell on his grief.